


Three Dimensional Number

by AClever_Username



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 'Cos I didn't think it bad enough for a tag update, But RK900 is also there, But it's Gavin so 90 percent punching and phck's, But no worse than in game, Complete, I Tried, I just kinda bullshitted why, I tag wrong, I'm Sorry, Not Beta Read, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), So apparently this now has action what do you know, So there's one here, Some violence and blood and stuff, Tbh I haven't decided if I even like Gavin and Nines but there we are, Warning anyway just in case, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: Well played, RK900.If it could insult, then it meant the nothing wasn’t just blank programming – it was assholery. Gavin was being played at his own game. He wasn’t entirely sure he was mad at the challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still on the fence if I even like these two, but they're perfect for each other. Whoever saw the three seconds RK900 was on screen and decided he was for Gavin I salute you. I have more planned for this but I don't know if any of you will like this/ want that so idk. Teen rating is just for swearing. Sorry if this is shite.

Gavin had a few things to say when he found out he had an android as his new partner.

RK900. They’d found it outside the precinct, waiting silently and slightly damp from the melting snow, though it didn’t react to anyone at first but Fowler, just stood calmly staring down the barrels of miscellaneous guns until it was ushered inside. Anderson and the Plastic Prick came back, of course, and after a fanfare of heated argument and wary side-eyeing that Gavin tuned out, Connor connected with it in an effort to work out what the actual fuck it was, and why the actual fuck it was there. Apparently it had been awoken by a Deviant straggler when the androids left Cyberlife tower, and had gone to the DPD as was its intended purpose (Gavin thought it was fucking hilarious, that Cyberlife had lost enough faith in Connor even before it became a Deviant little shit that they’d built a replacement. Hilarious, that was, until the replacement replaced Gavin’s partner). Connor couldn’t be certain if it was even a Deviant; it’d been woken up like the others, but the RK900 wasn’t fully completed, had been given no direct orders, and so had no walls to break down. It certainly didn’t _act_ like a Deviant.

It didn’t act like _Connor_ , for all that they shared the same face. Once Gavin had yelled himself blue in protest, (fucking pointlessly), he came to talk shit to plastic detective number two, finding it idling, to his rage-filled delight, in the break room. Gavin had fond memories of ordering Connor about in there. He’d sneered at it, deciding to show the thing who’s boss, and who got the coffee.

“Hey! Get me a coffee, dipshit!” It was the same thing he’d said last time but who gives a fuck, as far as Gavin was concerned it was a great line.

Unlike when he’d used it with Connor, however, the RK900 did nothing in response – just stood there, arms held stiffly by its side. Gavin (generously, he thought) gave it a second more before he snapped his fingers in front of its face impatiently. “You fucking listening to me? I told you to get me a coffee!”

And still it didn’t react, so of course that gave Gavin free reign to beat the ever-living shit out of it.

But when he raised his fist to punch the prick, it caught his hand in a movement so quick Gavin missed it. If it wasn’t for the fact that Gavin’s arm was held trembling inches away from its intended target, then he would have said the android hadn’t moved at all.

That left Gavin livid with fury and embarrassment; people were watching – he was looking _up_ to the damn thing! (Yeah alright he did that with most people, but the RK900 _towered_.)

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, squirming in an attempt to yank his hand back. And then forward again, into its face. RK900 just stared, and kicked Gavin’s feet a little further apart, the sudden loss of balance leaving Gavin’s free hand flailing on instinct, his gaze flying to the floor. When he looked back up the thing blinked, pressed Gavin’s fist back to his chest, and walked away.

Gavin knew what to do with violence and weakness, he didn’t know what to do with _nothing._

And the RK900 was so much nothing. It barely spoke, for one. Gavin had expected to be plagued by questions the way Anderson was, constantly greeted with ‘Good morning’ and ‘How’s the case’ and irrelevant dog facts akin to the incessant ping of phone notifications. The RK900 stayed silent almost the whole of that first week, Gavin still bitching and storming from place to place, telling himself to ignore the thing to the point where it’d be useless with him and Fowler would assign it somewhere else, but RK900 just followed, without a word. It stood eerily a few paces behind him, like the world’s most immovable shadow; it watched from across the desk, it sat in the passenger seat and stared intently out of the windscreen. Gavin had to fill the silence with _something_ , so turned to his trusty combination of gnashed teeth and insults, but was ignored. Gavin hated it. His hate had nowhere to go except walls and car tires. He’d even hit it, once, but it was hollow. Not the RK900, (something in Gavin’s hand splintered with the impact), but there was no accompanying satisfaction. He’d stood, flushed and breathing hard, clutching his bloodied fist, and it looked right back. It hadn’t flinched, hadn’t even broken the omnipresent stare to watch as Gavin’s fist collided with its chest. It said nothing, and it walked away.

Gavin was still nursing his bruised knuckles when the RK900 finally spoke. The general assumption around the DPD was that it was mute; it was an unfinished prototype, so Connor had proposed that its voice synthesiser might not be working. (He didn’t interact with it much, as hesitant as he was insufferably chipper, like a small dog afraid of being kicked – it made Gavin warm inside to see it that way, still smarting from his time down in the evidence room as he was. If the plastic detective steered clear then Gavin was gonna show he had the fucking balls to provoke Big Bad Connor 2.0) _._ He was meant to have been reviewing case files, (boring shit - all looting's and arson, the vandals running wild in a still mostly abandoned city), but Gavin was distracted; the bandage he had shoddily wound around his hand was piled on his desk, and he was preoccupied with watching the impressive mottling of bruises on his swollen skin, clenching his teeth together against the pain of trying to curl it into fist and continuing anyway.

“The neck of your fifth metacarpal is broken.”

Gavin jumped so hard he almost slammed his fucking hand into the side of the desk. He looked up at the android sitting across from him, and it looked the same as it always had – its face just the hard side of neutral.

“What?”

The RK900 opened its mouth, “The neck of your fifth metacarpal is broken.”

And Gavin just could not fucking believe it – it spoke, the piece of shit _spoke_. He’d been throwing everything he could at it all week, yelling and hissing, and once attempting a shoulder check but was already too far into the action before he realised the height difference made that impossible, so ended up just clocking it in its armpit and almost dislocating his _own_ fucking shoulder. All of that, and the android spoke out of the blue, when Gavin’s rage was so tempered by boredom that he’d forgotten to be a dick for a few moments. It made Gavin angry enough to punch the prick again.

The android’s LED spiralled yellow as it gave a calm flick of its eyes down to Gavin’s battered hand. “A break in the neck of the fifth metacarpal, more commonly known as a ‘Boxer’s fracture’, although some refer to it as a ‘Brawlers fracture’ due to the fact that trained professionals learn how to avoid injury.” There Gavin swore it paused, like any human would to take a breath (the RK900 doesn’t breathe - not even in the automated fabrication Connor does) and looked back at Gavin before it continued, “Brawlers have to learn how to punch without hurting themselves.”

It held his eyes, then lifted a hand to the terminal and turned its head to start processing the backlog of cases. Gavin teetered on the edge of seething. That, that sounded like an _insult_. His immediate reaction was to go round two, but he realised, infuriatingly, that all that would do was prove RK900 right. He’d been backed into a corner by the emotionless hunk of plastic – after days of rearing for a fight, he _couldn’t._

So Gavin bit back a fuck you and began re-wrapping his hand, near vibrating with rage, but underneath that, somewhere, swirled a grudging bit of respect.

_Well played, RK900._

If it could insult, then it meant the nothing wasn’t just blank programming – it was assholery. Gavin was being played at his own game. He wasn’t entirely sure he was mad at the challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

After that Gavin was forced to halt the useless physical assault, (for the sake of his other metacarpals if nothing else), but he wasn’t giving in. There was no way he was going to be bested by this thing; RK900 was going to bleed blue blood - Hell at the very least twitch a fucking eyebrow or something.

No-one else had heard their exchange (somehow Gavin and the RK900 had been the only ones in the precinct), and so for all intents and purposes it was the same nothing android that the DPD had gotten used to, so Gavin looked like a deluded idiot when he told Chen he’d heard it speak, and that the first thing to come out of its mouth was a fucking _dig_ at him. All he could see on her face was doubt. The actual sip of coffee she took when he relayed the whole thing back might as well have been a placating _Sure Gavin._

His own cup was being slowly strangled in his fist when he saw her look up at something over his shoulder, and he turned to find _it_ was there – standing like a barricade in the doorway, meeting Gavin’s eyes with its usual stare-frown.

Gavin hadn’t heard it approach; for such a hulking android it was soundless, but the way it stood was more unnerving than turning and finding it suddenly _there_. Gavin had seen Connor, the way the android fidgeted, folding its arms behind its back or if left waiting for too long starting on those insufferable coin tricks or twisting its hands together or _something._ It pissed Gavin off that it looked so human - despite how disturbing it was to see the RK900 so completely still, at least it wasn’t pretending to be anything but wires and computer code. It didn’t fidget like Connor. RK900’s arms stayed rigid and forgotten in a way that a human’s never were. It appeared to be devoid of the compulsion to find something to do with them; there was no gentle swaying or even a slight twitching of fingers. Gavin wondered whether that was a result of its programming or if it was part of RK900’s ‘personality’ – nobody could be sure there were even lines between the two like there was in a ‘normal’ android.

RK900 was not a normal android. Gavin was certain it had arrived simply because it knew it was being talked about.

“What?” he spat, turning around from where he’d lent against the break table.

Nothing.

“Come on then – say something for fucks sake! What do ya want?”

The RK900 stayed still, then looked to Tina Chen, and then looked back.

Chen took a sip of her drink in the silence. “I think it’s just waiting for you.”

Like fuck it was.

“Reed!” Fowler shouted, making Gavin flinch with the sudden volume but doing little in getting him to move, or even stop staring down the plastic fuck.

 _It_ didn’t do shit either, but of course that was normal. Gavin wasn’t moving until RK900 did. (He could practically hear Chen rolling her eyes behind him).

“Reed get your ass in here!  - RK900 too.”

The order was met with more tense silence, offset only by the slight squeak of polystyrene cracking under pressure; Gavin’s coffee cup still being crushed awkwardly by his left hand. (It would’ve been long obliterated if he hadn’t broken his fifth fucking metacarpal in his right).

“For fucks sake Gavin stop! It doesn’t count as a staring match if it ain’t doing shit but standing there – less ‘pissing contest’ and more ‘standing with your dick out’. Go see what the Hell Fowler wants,” Chen huffed irritably, having already been Done with Gavin for the last twenty minutes or so.

RK900 turned away, bodily looking towards the office.

 _Technically it lost,_ thought Gavin petulantly as he aggressively binned his cup, but if the RK900 was one to smirk Gavin was sure it would have. Gavin would have, if it were him. 

The whole encounter just made Gavin more certain he was being fucked with.

Because the RK900 never spoke around anyone else. When it was just them, it’d sometimes say something – never more than a few sentences and it may be hours before it did it again, but it spoke. It said shit out of nowhere, never answering a question but interjecting in places that at a glance seemed random, but the RK900 didn’t do purposeless.

It worked with efficiency; it chose only to speak when there was a reason, and that reason seemed to be pissing Gavin off with well-timed slights that were nothing but simple facts. The “I could file the report if you are unable,” after it had watched Gavin struggling to type with his busted hand for twice as long as it would usually take Gavin to finish up, the “you are exceeding the speed limit by 10 miles per hour,” when it was sitting in _Gavin’s fucking car_ on the highway.

Gavin had barely graced it with a look. “What’re you gonna do? Call the police on me?” He snorted.

If he looked right he could see the blue of RK900’s LED in the reflection of the passenger window. There wasn’t even a break in its calm spinning before it intoned, “Speeding is a contributing factor in twenty seven percent of all fatal crashes”.

And God fucking damn it if after a few moments of stubbornly keeping his speed did Gavin ease up on the accelerator.

Occasionally it would offer input about a case, but even that came with the unsaid implication that it was only helping because Gavin never would have got there on his own. (Gavin may have taken to nudging his nameplate closer and closer to the androids’ side of the desk, may have even underlined the abbreviated ‘Det.’ twice in Sharpie).

It still made him jump, every time RK900 spoke - mostly because it did it when Gavin wasn’t watching, or when his attention was focused elsewhere, but also because he wasn’t used to its voice. He could tell it was based on Connor’s model, the (Gavin refused to say _husk_ ) raspy-ness still there, but its voice was deeper - dropped to a level that matched the sheer breadth of the things shoulders (Gavin was sure the shitty Cyberlife jacket made it seem bulkier, the neck of its polo _thing_ made its jaw seem squarer; it was almost entertaining to think that it was someone’s job to dress the guy to look as terrifying as fucking possible). The most jarring thing about it though was the sheer monotony – he’d met some deadpan people in his life but Jesus RK900 took the biscuit. It _sounded_ like an android, in a way that no android ever had. There was no inflection, no gentle rise and fall. It was incredibly inhuman.

RK900 was apparently free from all that was ‘wrong’ with the RK800 series, built to be superior. It seemed Cyberlife’s version of ‘wrong’ matched Gavin’s – androids being too fucking human. RK900 spoke with less life than goddamn Siri used to.

And yet it managed to belittle Gavin with non – insults, and only ever when no-one could hear, so it just made Gavin look like a deluded twat when he went ranting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so chapter two. Hope i'm keeping everyone in character etc. Drop me a line if you think i'm doing fine, (because it's just me who reads this before posting so honestly this could be garbage and incoherent). Also I'm not on the police force and don't have whatever the opposite of a brit-picker is so if there's any American/Police procedure inaccuracies I apologise. I research what bones break when you punch someone but nothing about how the American Police Force works so i'm man enough to admit my knowledge of this entire setting is just the vague shit the game gave us. :) 
> 
> Okay so if you are reading this at night go to bed and the rest of you have a great day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For those of you who care) sorry this took forever, but I just moved to Uni so I had to socialise instead of write about fictional androids alone in my room. I like doing this though, so I hope you like it, and that the title starts to make a bit more sense. Feel free to guess (if you want) where this is going.

Gavin hated to think that he was losing against the plastic motherfucker, but he was losing.

It was clever, annoyingly clever, what the android was doing - fucking nothing, and letting Gavin make a tit of himself all on his own. It wasn’t Gavin’s style, (the little shit could belittle brawlers’ fists all it liked - they had gotten Gavin this far), but he had to admit that it worked.

So Gavin’s only option was to…'give up'. He attempted to keep a lid on his temper, stopped complaining about the RK900 (as much), didn’t even say anything when he turned around and found the piece of shit had crept up on him. RK900’s strategic silence relied on provoking Gavin’s reactions, so Gavin just had to give him none.

It was however,  _incredibly_  difficult. Pure stubbornness kept Gavin going, that and all his subsequent little victories. His current success stemmed from when RK900 had tried its usual lurking trick whilst Gavin had sat eating lunch. Before, he would have sneered and shoved; instead he’d pushed out the adjacent chair with his foot and asked, without looking up from his sandwich, “you gonna sit down?”

No-one (except maybe fucking _Connor)_  would have noticed the near imperceptible twitch of its eyebrows before it turned and walked off, but Gavin did. And it was fucking _fantastic_.  Finally, something out of the ordinary.

Gavin had smirked through the rest of his lunch.

To most at the precinct, the thing was unfathomable. The RK900 was different from any other android they’d ever encountered; too still and silent, too calculating and impassive. They reasoned it was the result of unfinished code and an absence of the deviance which made the other androids ‘alive’. Gavin knew that was bullshit. The android was Deviant alright; the brooding stares, the silence, that was just how RK900 was. Without any orders to tear down, all the programmed rigidity became just a part of him. It helped with being a gigantic prick.

In a fucking bizarre twist of fate (because Gavin still hated the guy, of course), Gavin knew the RK900 best. He was forced to work with it, sure, but he was also the only one who knew it was playing the game too.

They were currently existing in a somewhat truce – RK900 still refused to speak except to slight Gavin, Gavin still stubbornly attempted to ignore him, (his own attempts at chucking comments back seemed to slide right off. _Plastic_ ). So far he’d got the most out of it – a tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes – when he was borderline pleasant with him. It seemed that whatever algorithms or preconstructions or whatever the fuck androids operated on were never prepared for it (mostly likely still anticipating violence because, well, Gavin wasn’t a saint and sometimes the RK900 deserved a kick). It did make for an awful amount of free time, however, when Gavin had nothing to do but swallow possible insults and glare at the RK900, watching the occasional flick of yellow in his LED as it processed something. Gavin wasn’t good with silence; it made him restless – the very last thing he wanted to be when he was trying to keep his cool - so he talked, filling the space between their desks with words. Gavin hated to admit it, but there was something cathartic about just talking, about any old shit, and being so thoroughly ignored. There was no judgement or frustration from someone that simply didn’t care. Even if it was listening (and sometimes Gavin could tell that he was – he’d blink less (not that it did that an awful lot anyway) and look up from under his brow whenever Gavin stopped for breath, as if checking Reed was going to continue) – RK900 never answered in company anyway, so Gavin _wasn’t making fucking conversation with it._

It was a tactical move, aided by the fact Gavin quite liked to hear the sound of his own voice.

Huffing a breath Gavin spun slowly in his chair, slumping back in his seat and reaching an arm forward to idly twirl his access card against tip of his fingers and the desk. It was bleeding slowly into evening, most of the people at the precinct packing up to go home or out to dinner, heading down to the archives or up to forensics, but Detective Gavin Reed and Fuck-Face 900 were still there - Fowler's orders.

He stretched his feet out beneath the desks, (an action only possible because RK900 was vacant from his side, but Gavin was still encroaching on its personal space regardless so _there_ ) he looked up at the sound of a door, watching someone dart to the break room. He would have looked back down at his very important card twirling if he had not caught sight of a familiar white jacket.

RK900 noticed the officer fiddling with the coffee machine, and strode over soundlessly to loom over the poor sods turned back. Gavin snorted, twisting what was _most definitely not an amused smirk_ into a sneer as he watched them turn around and promptly shit themselves, sloshing a fair bit of their drink over the rim of their cup and onto the floor. Whilst they wiped at the spillage with some napkins, RK900 just idly stood there, tracking them with its eyes as they gave an awkward half cough of acknowledgement and promptly sped off, disappearing through the door they’d entered through. Only then did it start back towards his desk.

It had been doing that a lot, Gavin had noticed; abusing the fact that everyone thought he was a personality-less machine to be an asshole. If he was anyone else, Gavin would have found that shit fucking hilarious.

But it was RK900.

So he _didn’t._

Gavin tried to make the removal of his feet look like a stretch as it calmly sat down and started immediately interfacing with the terminal, throwing in a fake yawn that turned into a real one for good measure. He’d have to make an actual attempt at work now that the Plastic Prick was back, in order to decrease any ammo on the topic of ‘laziness’, because Gavin was a decent detective and fuck if he wasn’t gonna show it.

He was actually productive for about twenty minutes, and then promptly lost the will to live. There were too many crimes involving androids for Anderson and his pet to handle alone, so a bunch had been shoved Gavin’s way, and it was fucking _boring_. The room was too quiet for Gavin to concentrate, RK900 was (as ever) noiseless, and so the squeak of Gavin’s bouncing knee was the only human sound in the otherwise abandoned bullpen. He ended up just scrolling through the cases, only half reading the details in search of something _interesting_ , but mostly watching the endless lines of ‘Traci’, ‘Jerry’ and ‘Chloe’ fly by.

He thought about what Connor had said once; that in the event of his impromptu deactivation, another Connor would be sent in his place. That meant there must have been a whole litany of ‘Connor’s, such as there was ‘Traci’s and ‘Jerry’s.

Gavin looked across at RK900, considering.

“Do you have a name?”

RK900’s brow twitched and his eyes snapped over to meet Gavin’s.

Gavin hastened to explain, because he’d let his fucking mouth run away from him again and he didn’t actually give a shit about the Plastic and he couldn’t have it thinking that he did. “I meant, like, y’know - ‘Traci’ or ‘Jerry’ - a collective model name or some shit, ‘cos there’s a fuck-ton of RK800 ‘Connor’s right? So do you, you have a- ” he cut himself off with a frustrated sweep of his hand when RK900 did nothing but stare.

“It doesn’t fucking matter. Forget it,” he said instead, and then wanted to slam his head against the table because he’d forgotten he wasn’t talking to a person who would actually respond to those sort of questions, so telling it to ‘forget it’ was just fucking stupid.

He briefly envied RK900’s inability to blush as he glared resolutely back at his screen, feeling his face burning scarlet. The side of his thumb thumped aggressively against the top of his desk as he read each case in excruciating detail, making a point not to notice the minutes ticking by. He couldn’t hear any signs of work from RK900, but he never could anyway so that meant Jack.

Distantly, a door slammed.

“Connor”.

Gavin’s thumb paused in the air, and he briefly entertained continuing as if he hadn’t heard, but the android had never answered a direct question before. He looked up.

RK900 was still staring, immoved although at least ten minutes had passed.

He surprised Gavin with elaboration, his voice as steady as ever but LED a soft yellow. “I was built to be RK800’s successor, so there was no need to appoint the RK900 series a new name. The RK800’s would be destroyed, and in the absence of the original ‘Connor’s, the name would be free to use for the replacements,” he explained methodically.

Gavin blinked at him. “So the RK900’s are ‘Connor’ too?”

“Correct, although I am the only RK900 in operation, and as RK800 13 248 317 – 51 ‘Connor’ was not deactivated, I was not officially appointed the name, as is procedure.”

“So,” Gavin said again, flicking his eyes between the makeshift nameplate of Connor’s desk, (Anderson’s doing) and the empty place on RK900’s where one would sit, “what you’re actually saying is that, in _theory_ , you would be called ‘Connor’, but ‘cos the OG is still walking and talking, you haven’t actually got a name?”

“Correct.”

Gavin picked up his card and tapped the edge twice on his desk, swiping his thumb over the surface.

_Just: RK900._

The terminal still softly glowed, so he glanced over at the screen. Since the revolution, an android’s name was listed _before_ their model number. Most only had the one, just a small scattering of surnames messed up the DPD’s logging system, but every PL600, every WR400 or TR400 or _whatever_ had chosen a name to go by.

RK900 had returned to work, deeming the conversation over with, but he blinked when Gavin murmured to himself, “'Connor' doesn’t suit you anyway”.

And it didn’t.

‘Connor’ was such a benign name; why the fuck Cyberlife decided to give it to a _detective_ was at first beyond Gavin’s reasoning, but by (begrudgingly) watching the android in action, he could see why it was fitting for the RK800’s. They were, after all, designed to gain the trust of humans, given a soft slur of a name to match purposefully gentle features. Clearly Cyberlife decided to _fuck that_ second time around, because RK900 was anything but _soft_ (as Gavin’s hand fucking knew). ‘Connor’ didn’t fit the silent metal mountain. It was difficult to think of any name that would. ‘James’ or ‘Christopher’ or ‘Blake’ seemed wrong - too _human_ for something that just was not. Names didn’t seem compatible, like sugar-coating steel, like trying to fit two where there was only space for one.

Gavin looked at the stark line of digits on its jacket, then again at its impassive face. RK900 didn’t suit words, he decided, he suited the rigid consistency of numbers. Numbers, with their two dimensions, with their refusal to bend with the shifting intonations of consonants and vowels, impersonal and cold. RK900 was all zeroes and ones.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I roughly planned this chapter but turns out I wrote actual action for it? I've never done that before so sorry if it's just...wrong. There is some violence and mention of a dead body here (not too graphic dw) but warning just in case. Enjoy and stuff.

The storage container was cold against Gavin’s back – no scratch that, fucking _freezing_. Metal plus Shitty Abandoned Warehouse plus Winter made for a chill that seeped straight through his jacket (and okay he could have put something thicker on, but this was his _Cool_ jacket and he had no idea he’d end up backed up tightly against one of these things, listening to the loud thrum of nervous voices a short distance away).

He looked across at RK900, who was leaning against another container a little way across from him. It was weird to see him leaning. If Gavin stopped to think, it made sense that it’d be programmed with everything Gavin had learnt in training, in order to be the ‘perfect’ detective, but he’d seen almost nothing but stiff standing and sitting from the android. _Leaning_ seemed weirdly unnecessary.

RK900’s LED was flickering yellow, had been for a while, and Gavin was getting impatient; he wanted to just _get_ the motherfuckers.

When Fowler gave them the disturbance to investigate, Gavin was _thrilled._ He’d spent too many maddening weeks stuck behind a desk, practically wasting away. RK900 came too, of course, and if Gavin didn’t know better he would say that it shared his relief about being out on an investigation – he offered no comment at all at Gavin’s choice of blaring music, and got out of the car Gavin had shittily parked without any pointed looks at the space lines Gavin had ignored. He supposed it wasn’t built for desk work, really. There was only so much fun you could have inside the DPD’s walls.

They very quickly found clear signs of a break in and Red Ice usage, but not a lot else, and Gavin was about to call it a day when his arm was gripped in a vice as he turned to go.

“Hey! The fuck are you-”

RK900 didn’t let him finish. “We are not done yet detective,” it said, squinting towards a distant doorway taped over with heavy plastic.

Gavin wrenched his arm free and wandered over, slowing down as he approached and noticed the dark stain of _something_ on the concrete.

“Thirium,” he heard RK900 say, “and notable traces of-”

“Blood.” Gavin finished, squatting down next to a significant puddle that trailed under the tarp, the bottom of which stained a dirty red from dragging clumsily through it.

RK900 crouched down next to him (because of course Gavin hadn’t heard him walk over and so almost toppled into a pool of evidence in surprise). It touched his fingertips to it, fishing a handkerchief out of the inner lining of its jacket with the other hand as he did so.

It pressed his middle fingertip to his thumb gently, then wiped them clean.

“Adam Crick. Born ninth October 2014, unemployed. Multiple charges of Red Ice possession”.

Gavin nodded. “Well the size of this pool isn’t looking too good for old Adam.”

“No.”

“And the Thirium?” he asked. Looking around, he thought he could just see some faint blue-ish stains, smaller spatters than the spillage of Adam’s blood. “Whatever android this is from didn’t lose as much – it’s probably still functioning.”

“Yes.”

Gavin rolled his eyes and began turning back to face the prick. “Well I can see why they spent billions on you – _real_ helpful, no human detective would provide _nearly_ as much insight.”

RK900 ignored him (like usual), and instead tugged at the murky plastic covering the doorway with two fingers (very carefully above the stain, as if he hadn’t shoved those fucking fingers in it just a moment ago). “The trail continues through here – both the blood and the Thirium,” it intoned, holding the opening wider so Gavin could lean over and peer through. RK900 was right; the resulting somewhat corridor was dimly lit, but he could still see the thick slug trail of blood dark on the ground.

“The Thirium is much less frequent,” RK900 said simply.

Pushing on his knees, Gavin stood up, as did RK900, who let the plastic fall back with a crinkle. Gavin grunted lowly, settling his hands on his hips and tapping his fingers in thought. “The body was dragged then.”

He saw RK900 turn its head to look at him out of the corner of his eye. Gavin expected it to turn back, but it didn’t, so he raised an eyebrow in retaliation. Another moment, and the android refocused on the door. 

(Gavin had no clue what the fuck _that_ was meant to accomplish).

“The reconstructions suggest a high probability of that eventuality,” RK900 concurred.

They both stood looking at the doorway. “We should call this in before we follow it,” Gavin said with a nod, very much wanting to _not_ and barge straight on through.

“I have already taken the liberty of contacting the DPD, as record indicates you have a tendency not to follow official protocol, Detective.”

Gavin just side-eyed him, inwardly congratulating himself on not rising to what was (no matter what fucking _Tina Chen_ said), bait.

RK900 didn’t even blink, just opened its mouth quietly, “We can proceed with the investigation.”

“Don’t know where the fuck this ‘we’ is coming from,” grumbled Gavin, raising the murky sheet and stepping forward through the doorway (OVER the blood, obviously), and continuing cautiously onward. He assumed the thing followed. The path wasn’t difficult to trail, and came to an abrupt end in the form of a crumpled body dumped shoddily up against one of the many storage units that began to block the way.

He sighed heavily. He was an ass-hole, but the guy was dead, and that didn’t sit well with anyone. He felt for a pulse just to tick the box more than anything, unsurprised when he found none seeing as cause of death appeared to be the piping that the body was impaled on.

He lent back, catching sight of RK900’s immaculate dress shoe in his peripheral vision. “Adam Crick, yes?”

There was no answer, not even a brisk ‘affirmative’.

Frowning, he looked up.

RK900 wasn’t looking at him, but turned away, staring intently at what Gavin guessed was the next room.

“Oi, Tincan – murder here not interesting enough for you?”

“I detect heat signatures.”

Gavin widened his eyes with a jerk, standing quickly. “Shit! You think they’re the-”

“The Thirium continues towards them, as do several sets of footprints.”

If he squinted, Gavin could just make out what he thought were scuff marks on the ground (they _were_ in an old as fuck warehouse, after all). There were rather a lot of them.  

“Christ, these are all footprints?”

“Affirmative.”

Gavin threw a look back at Adam’s body, then brought a hand up to rub at his face.

“How many of ‘em are we looking at then?”

“Six,” it responded, “humans. I calculate there to also be at least two androids.”

“You mean you don’t _know_ that?”

There was silence; a bristling period for anyone else. (It was a ‘bristling period’ for RK900. _SWEET FUCKING VICTORY!)_  

There was nothing more from RK900. Gavin purposefully didn’t say shit, but God if he wasn’t going to treasure the moment, just for a second.

He took a breath. “At least eight of them then.”

Gavin tapped his fingers against his leg, chewing on his lip, then shuffled forward on an exhale. “Right then, let’s go.”

The problem with RK900 being so silent, is that Gavin never knew where the fuck the thing was. He made it a grand total of two steps before half twisting on his third to check on it, only to find he hadn’t moved. _Of course._ Throwing his hands up with a frustrated sigh, Gavin rolled his eyes and backtracked the four fucking centimetres he’d put between them.

RK900 could just fuck off with the uncooperative bullshit.

“Look,” he started, “we’re here – you’ve already called for backup, it’s very likely they made this guy a human kebab, and they’re all still here!”

_What is it about sticking around when the fucking RK’s are investigating?!_

“There’s no way I’m just gonna stand by and let them get away - the stupid fucks are practically _begging_ to be caught!”

“Detective Reed, every possible preconstruction indicates a ninety seven percent failure rate – failure in this case severe injury or death.”

Gavin snorted. “Of who? ‘cos I couldn’t give a shit about the suspects.”

“The calculated risk is to our persons.”

That made him pause. He wasn’t Anderson, and didn’t _actually_ want to die, (despite how much he joked about it), and ninety-seven was an infuriatingly large number.

“Fine,” he spat eventually, “but I’m not staying here. I’m gonna get closer and watch them, then get the little Shits when the others arrive.” He started to march off, before thinking better of it and softening his steps. The last thing he wanted to do was scare them away after all that, but then he felt like an idiot; RK900 would have noticed, and suddenly switching to near-tiptoe wasn’t _quite_ the dramatic last word Gavin was after.   

“Following enough ‘procedure’ now?” he settled on hissing sarcastically, throwing his hands up in air quotes for good measure.

_Nailed it._

So they'd walked onward.

Gavin shifted uncomfortably against the container. He’d only been there for about ten minutes, (it really hadn’t taken long to find the right room), but just about every limb he owned was beginning to cramp, and all the waiting was getting on his nerves. The group (and RK900 was right, there _were_ eight of them) were spewing some pretty damn incriminating shit, and although the android was recording the whole thing (hence the infernal spinning yellow LED; _the wonders of technology_ ), it would mean sweet Fuck All if they never _found_ them again.

“It was a warning shot Kate!” one of the group was shouting, and had been shouting, for as long as Gavin was in earshot. “You didn’t have to fucking kill him!”

“He hated androids! He was going to kill Lola if I didn’t do anything!”

(Gavin didn’t need RK900’s _expertise_ to work out that was Kate).

“Is it any wonder he hates you Plastic Fucks if you go around _murdering_ people! The only reason I haven’t shut you down right here is ‘cos your girlfriend turned to _blackmail!"_   

“Smart girl,” murmured another, a woman with the voice of a smoker and the calm demeanour of someone completley in control – or alternatively someone high off their tits. Gavin favoured the latter.

“Shut the Hell up Em. This was meant to be a simple fucking trade off and now we’ve got a - a dead _fucking_ body and two crazy android bitches going all Terminator on us – we can’t do what you want alright? Let us go for fucks sake!”

“We can’t walk around like this,” Kate again, “and we can’t go to Cyberlife to get fixed - they’ll see the memories of how our HUD’s got destroyed, and that’s not going to go well for _any_ of us!”

Irrationally, Gavin held his breath in the resulting pause, listening to the shuffling sounds of frustrated pacing, a whispered but heartfelt “Jesus _fuck!_ ”

He cut a look back at RK900 still standing vigilant (and even more terrifying than usual shrouded in creepy warehouse half-light) and got nothing but the infernal yellow blinking of his mood ring.  

The suspects were getting restless; they were going to have to move soon, no matter what Mr High and Mighty thought.

With its spooky _Gavin’s thinking shit about him_ sense, RK900 turned to glare. Gavin indicated getting closer with a jerk of his head, then bared his teeth when RK900 didn’t respond except by somehow intensifying the staring, (which was already turned right the way up to fucking 100, but it was apparently possible to go one further). 

_God_ Gavin had been doing such a good job not hitting him, but if there was ever a moment where he was sorely tempted to.

Suddenly there came a staticky gasp, higher register than anything he’d heard so far.

“Lola what – you alright?” asked Kate worriedly.

“Someone’s here – my scanners, they - a human.”

_Fuck._

Pandemonium. Shouts, footsteps, the dense thunder of metal as Gavin lunged around the corner, intent on _not_ being a sitting fucking duck.

And then there was gunshots and pain.

He hit a wall with a heavy thump, the gun he’d drawn clattering on the concrete as he rolled to the floor, gasping for breath. It was near fucking _agony_.

_Well that’s gonna bruise_ , he thought absently.

He could hear the sounds of, well he wasn’t focused enough to work out exactly _what,_ but the sounds of shit going down around him, but for a moment he just lay there, inhaling despite it feeling like his ribs had been crushed.

He was confused though, because he hadn’t been shot. There was no blood, no ragged hole in his skin when he grabbed at the hem of his top and dragged it upwards, only a riot of dull pink and vibrant red bruising worthy of a Manfred painting.

With a (probably unwise) sharp inhale, he struggled to sit up, and scrubbed the film of tears out of his eyes.

The room was chaos. A bright splash of Thirium immediately caught Gavin’s attention, and his eye was drawn to an android with a significantly dented head and a missing _something_ laying still in the blue. Very still. Gavin knew Jack shit about androids, but her LED was still pulsing a low red, so he assumed it wasn’t totally ‘dead’.

He honed in on the gruff sounds of pained cries and gasps, and looked to a man curled up on his side, at the red smear of blood dirtying his lips, at the unnatural angle of the leg he was clutching.

“Pussy,” came a low mutter from Gavin’s left, grating but feminine. He blinked at her strange calm; her red hair was escaping from beneath her beanie, but apart from that she appeared completely unaffected.

A loud bang sounded, and Gavin’s head snapped to the source.

“Holy shit!”

Wheezing, and bracing one hand on a container to pick himself up, he grappled for his dropped gun, but in truth he had no idea what he planned to do with it, had no idea where to fucking _shoot._

RK900 was locked in combat with two men, repeatedly throwing them to the floor in-between grappling with a one-eyed Traci model. The white jacket was blue with Thirium.

A boy with blond unruly curls and a smear of blood that dripped from a gash in his forehead down over wide eyes stood across the room, seemingly encountering the same problem as Gavin; the gun held in his trembling hands roved sporadically over the group.

“Michael! TJ! Fucking, fucking move! I – I can’t-” he shouted.

Michael? TJ? _One_ of the fuckers stumbled as he was pushed back by RK900 and slammed his head on the side of a sturdy metal table with a wounded gasp, adding the screech of rusting table legs grinding along the floor to the cacophony, and stayed down, whimpering and clutching at his hair.

Gavin lowered his gun. There was no way he could be of any use to RK900 with it, and he was no use to table guy – the dude was too far away and Gavin _wasn’t_ shot and quite frankly didn’t plan on changing that, but the last remaining suspect (his head may have been throbbing from its collision with fucking concrete but he could still count), lay spread-eagled on the floor a reasonable distance away. She was bleeding from a gash in her side, but it looked non-fatal, and he needed to be of use instead of just standing there with a stick up his arse.

He only just remembered the red head before he went to take a step forward, and threw his gaze back over his shoulder. Still she watched him calmly, simply shrugging and gesturing in invitation.

_Fucking weirdo._

He knelt next to the girl with a grunt of pain, fingers finding the weak thrumming of a pulse at her neck.

“Shit! Can you hear me?”

There was no response except for continued shallow breaths – better than complete silence, Gavin supposed. Applying pressure to the wound added strain on those _fucking_ broken ribs, forcing a wince and a harsh exhale. Gavin stoppered the bleeding and listened to the encroaching wail of police sirens grow ever closer, ignoring the shout and snap of _something_ breaking in _someone,_ a loud clatter and a warped gasp.

At two rather final sounding thumps, he dared to look up.

RK900 was crushing the one-eyed Traci with his weight, one hand holding her one remaining arm still, and the other pointing a gun at the boy with the curls, who was still in the corner, just minus a weapon and on his knees.

Everyone else was on the floor.

Gavin afforded himself the luxury of a few heaving breaths. “What the Hell just happened!”

RK900 didn’t look away from the boy with the curls (who was clearly shitting himself just under RK900’s scrutiny – the gun seemed almost like overkill).

“I incapacitated the suspects which posed a threat.”

Gavin expected more explanation, was given none, (obviously) and only then noticed the holes littering the android’s chest – all that Thirium was his.

“You got yourself shot!”

The slight flex of skin around RK900’s jaw was the only indication it even heard, for he said nothing. Christ did RK900 pick some opportune moments to continue whatever game they were playing.

“I’m talking to you, you shit! When did this-” Gavin cut himself off.

_Gunshots, and some spectacular bruising that hurt like a bitch._

“Did you break all my fucking ribs?”

There was silence for so long, Gavin wondered if they were going back to non-conversation.  

“You only have three broken ribs Detective Reed.”

“With the way he _launched_ you out of the way of those bullets I’m surprised you’re not dead to be honest,” the red head offered, but Gavin paid her no mind, staring at RK900’s unmoving profile.

He finally understood the appeal RK900 found in ignoring someone.

The sirens were blaring outside, accompanied by shouts and slamming doors. _About time._

God did Gavin ache. He didn’t want to think about all the shit he was yet to process, about how fucking brutal RK900 was, about how very _not dead_ any of them were despite this.

About how those bullets were meant for him.

Swallowing around the kind of nothing that sticks in your throat, he rubbed his face against his shoulder briefly. “Ninety-seven percent wasn’t it? For ‘fatal’ or whatever - you gonna fucking deactivate on me?”

RK900’s LED circled yellow in the pause.

“This eventuality exists in the remaining three percent. Apologies if you were hoping for any other eventuality Detective.”

“Oh shut up you utter prick!” he tried to spit in return, but it came out in more of a sigh that was _not_ relief. If there was ever a time when he wasn’t in the mood, it was then – it’d been a long morning, and Gavin could do with a coffee and a smoke.

Footsteps thundered closer, as did the shouts of ‘Detroit police’ behind them. Gavin’s fingers twitched against the (thankfully still alive) girl beneath him, and he was sure he must have punctured a lung or something, so sue him for thinking about what a bitch all the paperwork was sure to be.

_"Fuck!”_

RK900 kept his arm in position, but turned to look at Gavin.

“What?”

RK900 stared intently for a considerably longer pause than a human would take, unblinking despite the rowdy noise of police clatter echoing close off the walls. Just as Gavin was about to look away in favour of directing the approaching backup, he spoke.

“The correct pronunciation is _‘f uck’_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I have no idea what i'm doing, if this is shit, or if my characterisation is awful. I just hope it's readable enough to be enjoyable. Drop me a line/Kudos etc if you feel like it - I'll finish this whatever, I think ('cos unfinished works are the devil) but it's always great to read/see some people want that.
> 
> Alright have a nice day.   
> :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to the four people who bookmarked this (thank you so much btw, it genuinely makes me want to yeet myself out of a window less knowing people read and enjoy my shit), this update took forever 'cos: it was longer than I anticipated, it turns out there's a LOT of work to do at Uni, and also i'm a lazy fuck. But I'm a lazy fuck who doesn't abandon shit so here, have a chapter.

The android on the other side of the glass was a bit of a bitch, which was better than the constant sobbing from the last one.

Gavin watched the interrogation with a scowl, listening to what little information they could get out of her. It was ‘Kate’s turn - the android with the missing eye, although that’d been replaced along with her arm. The other one ( _Lola,_ Kate kept insisting), had been retrieved from the android version of a hospital or a workshop or whatever the fuck they were called, and was sitting in a cell, waiting, and presumably, still crying.

They’d interviewed who they could, but most of the suspects had taken a trip to the hospital, for one thing or another – including Gavin, who’d been too fuming and exhausted to put up enough of a fight to stop it.

(RK900 was right – Gavin was the proud owner of three broken ribs).

Which hurt like _hell_ , and were bruised ugly yellow and deep purple. He kept thoughtlessly propping his hands on his hips or stretching, and having to either quickly find a reason to _fucking undo that shit_ or tough it out. Gavin had currently chosen to go with the latter. He was listening to One-Eye, sure, but he’d crossed his arms without thinking when he’d first entered, and was stuck trying not to let the others chilling there know that it hurt as much as it did. Technically, he shouldn’t be back at work – he’d only had about a week to ‘recover’ or whatever. He should have taken at least two, six to fully heal, but _fuck that_ \- he’d rather go back to desk work.

The only reason he’d readily consented to a week off in the first place was because he wouldn’t have got much done at the precinct without his partner anyway.

RK900’s bullet wounds hadn’t been fatal, but (and Gavin didn’t care to understand the correct techno babble), they were destructive, and it took a few days to get him fixed. As a result he’d returned before Gavin, and had been mostly supervising the interviews (not doing them though, because he shut the hell up as soon as the rest of the force had arrived and left all the explaining to Reed, (and there was a LOT of fucking explaining), so everyone was still under the impression he couldn’t say a fucking word), and filling in what paperwork that could be done without Gavin.

Determining that he’d been casual and _definitely not in pain_ for enough time, Gavin finally dropped his arms and leaned back against the wall, watching the detective attempt to wrangle something coherent out of the suspect. They’d chucked Gavin in here for his first day back, and sent RK900 down to an evidence room, to do some hellishly boring cataloguing, if Gavin had overheard his instructions correctly. Although to be honest Gavin was also fucking bored – only a couple of suspects in and they’d pieced the thing together. The curly haired kid (James, apparently), had practically broken down and spilled the beans. He was young; simply in search of drugs, not murder. The case was relatively disappointing really – just a drug deal gone wrong, too many harsh words and an already unstable Deviant with a girlfriend to protect got a bit stabby, although not before catching a few hits from the others (apart from Em with the beanie, who Gavin was physically incapable of imagining doing anything but observing), hence the damage that broke their scanners, the trail of dripping Thirium.

All that was left was to wriggle out _why_ the fuck the androids had been there in the first place – it’s not as if they were planning on getting high on Red Ice. Lola spoke with great difficulty, and they’d only managed a few garbled words out of her in-between sobs, Kate was proving to be incredibly difficult, and they couldn’t just _probe_ the fuckers anymore. Gavin found himself almost _wishing_ that bloody Connor wasn’t busy with some other shit; he pissed Gavin off but Christ he’d been waiting around for too long and the thing probably would have finished all this shit ages ago. Connor was annoyingly efficient, bested only by RK900. (Which WAS funny, seeing as that was literally what RK900 was designed to do).

There was a soft mutter of ‘ _finally’_ to Gavin’s left, and clearly he’d missed something, as he tuned back in to find that whilst Kate was still pissed, she was at least talking.

“We got damaged during the revolution, when one of you shot at us. We weren’t even _doing_ anything! We knew better than to get involved with all that, and were _just fine_ before you started to hunt all us Deviants down.”

She stopped to unclench her fists and to take an unnecessary breath.

“Lola’s previous master broke her vocal processor, and never replaced it. She damaged so much shit in her just because she could, and we could only buy replacements from Cyberlife – do you know how expensive that is? We’re domestic models trying to keep a low profile, no grand hijacking schemes would work for us, and yet we needed the money.”

She seemed to deflate, tugging her new arm against the restraint of the cuffs, the replacement of noticeably better quality. She splayed her palm, flexed her fingers, gently turned her hand over to inspect both sides of her hand.

“You humans pay a high price for Red Ice, and most don’t care where it comes from, are too high to notice my flickering skin, to notice that I look just like the android their sister bought, or the one they’d seen shot on the news.”

She looked back up, the fire back in her eyes. “Adam couldn’t see past all of that. I may have crossed a line, but as far as I’m concerned he crossed one first – you all did. We can’t all forgive and forget like Markus.”

She’d said her piece, and sat back, staring off blankly at the wall. They still needed more from her, but it was enough for now. Gavin was glad. He wanted to: A - Sit the fuck down, and B - Just leave the fucking case alone for a minute. He couldn’t however, (well he could accomplish the first one), as he was yet to finish the never-ending pages of paperwork he knew were sitting piled up on his desk. _If only people would stop adding to it every time they walk past._

With a sigh (and a wince he’d vehemently deny if anyone dared to point it the fuck out), he pushed off from the wall, and left the remaining officers to finish up.

He was making his way back to his desk and its accompanying towering pile of folders and tablets (as instead of sending over a file he just kept being given a whole new tablet of things to do), when he caught sight of an officer lingering by it, Noped the fuck out of that, and went to get a coffee instead.

And that was other reason the case wouldn’t just fucking die already; everyone wanted to hear about it. Alright so it was exciting, but in the absence of both Gavin _and_ RK900 chatter had circulated. Everyone wanted to know _how_ exactly Gavin had ended up bruised, and RK900 ended up riddled with bullets. The problem was that Gavin had a significant chunk of that information missing, (recovering from being flung against a wall will do that to a guy), no-one had even _thought_ of asking RK900 (though Gavin had to concede that the prick wouldn’t answer, just to be contrary), and the suspect’s accounts were both confusing and blurred (the product of being high or…otherwise incapacitated), so the only lucid, reasonable, and believable account was from Em, who took a great amount of relish describing exactly how efficiently RK900 had handled the situation, and how ‘useless’ Gavin had been.

Everyone wanted to hear, first hand, if that was true, (and also to take the opportunity to tease Gavin relentlessly). He hated having to suffer through the questions, and he hated having to find a way to make it sound like RK9-fucking-00 _hadn’t_ ‘saved his life’, because that _was not at all what had happened_.

If there was one thing Gavin was thankful for it was the speed of the coffee maker in the place; he only had to spend a couple of minutes idly tapping his fingers on the side of the counter before it was done, and he could struggle with setting the little plastic lid on right. _The fucking things._ Eventually he managed to get it _somewhat_ squished on there, and to his delight saw the officer had gone from his desk when looked over his shoulder. As he reached for some napkins he heard the squeak of shoes approaching and resolutely kept his back turned. Maybe whoever it was would just walk on.

“Gavin!”

Yeah he was fucked. The squeak of shoes grew louder, and he turned just as Chen approached. He’d been avoiding her all morning, and doing a bloody good job until just now. She’d be sure to rip the absolute shit out of him for landing himself in hospital, and for being so thoroughly shown up by RK900.

“So,” she said, already smiling smugly and settling her hands on her hips.

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Fuck off Chen.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

He went to gesture wildly, and almost sloshed burning coffee in her face. He switched his cup to his other hand at the last second. “I’m not telling you shit.”

“You’re gonna have to y’know - I’ll just get the story from everyone else, and I’ve got to say, there’s a lot of rumours going around.”

With a scowl Gavin tried to budge past her, but she sidestepped easily into his way.

“I heard a certain RK900 flopped you around like a rag-doll.”

“No comment.”

“Well shit what a lucky bastard, we all would have taken the chance to rough you up good and proper.”

“He didn’t do it intentionally,” Gavin growled, trying again to evade her.

Chen just scoffed. “Well obviously – it was just following protocol, ‘human life above all else’ ‘n all that.”

Gavin’s eyebrows twitched, and he paused to look at her properly. “What?”

She blinked at him like he was an idiot. “Well it’s RK900 isn’t it? There’s nothing going on up there except all that Cyberlife shit. Does the job _super_ fucking well, obviously, but, I mean – I think it would have shown something by now if it was-”

“He has! He’s a complete asshole! I told-”

“Gavin that’s just your argumentative bullshit – we’ve only your word it even speaks y’know – the general consensus around here is ‘doubt’.” She lifted an eyebrow and her lips curved into a lazy smirk. “We think you’re just tryna get it fired but I hate to break it to you Gavin, this case has given the DPD definitive proof all that fancy prototype shit works in the field,” she finished, lifting a hand to pat him roughly on the arm before turning and walking away.

The coffee was still steaming; tendrils poured upwards from that infernal little drink slot in the lid, but Gavin roughly took a sip anyway and scalded his whole fucking mouth.

Chen, and the rest of the DPD for that matter, were wrong. Gavin knew he wasn’t crazy, that RK900 doled out as much shit as Gavin himself, that he spent most of his time pissing Gavin off, or scaring the shit out of one officer or another. RK900 was a fucking weird android for sure, more, well _android-y_ than all the other Deviants in Detroit, but he was as ‘alive’ as any of them. He was…mechanical, but the silence was out of choice, and even the strange way he stood or spoke or _moved_ seemed to...suit him. Somehow. As did his specific method of dickery. He might sometimes make someone a coffee, but then deliberately fuck the order up, or stand in someone’s way and pretend not to understand that he should move, or watch Gavin look for his car keys for _twenty fucking minutes_ before telling him to check his jacket pocket. If you were forced to spend enough time with him, (and as far as Gavin knew, the only person that applied to was himself), you picked up on that shit. Gavin was right, and RK900 was, by nature, a gigantic Deviant Prick.

Which led to the problem Gavin had been trying to ignore. He knew with certainty that Chen was chatting complete shit about RK900, which meant said android couldn’t have just been mindlessly obeying protocol.  

Which meant he shoved Gavin out of the way of those bullets on his own accord.

“Fuck.”

So maybe Gavin’s earlier assessment was just a little bit off. There was more to him if you…’got to know him’, as Gavin supposed he (unwittingly) had. And that surprise extra side had saved his life.

He wasn’t saying _thank you_ or any such shit; they were assholes to each other ninety nine percent of the time, and (even if they _were_ locked in a somewhat amicable truce), Gavin liked it like that. It worked. But the whole thing had been niggling Gavin ever since he worked out what happened, so for _purely selfish reasons,_ he resolved to go talk to the fucker.

Gavin ignored his overflowing desk and turned out of the bullpen, making his way to the stairs, off to find his favourite Tincan.

RK900 was sat in one of the older evidence rooms. It was much less flash than the one used for the Deviancy cases, and much smaller, but it was blessed with a table and a set of chairs, and Gavin could see him sitting at one of them through the glass of the doors, bent over a terminal and holding a crisp sheaf of papers in one hand. Gavin hesitated a little on the last step down, but he’d come this far, and knew that RK900 would have already noticed him.

He swung the doors open and plopped himself into the seat across from him, plucking at his jacket and looking at everything in the room apart from RK900, alternating between hoping to get his full attention and being glad when he didn’t.

He didn’t actually have much of a plan, and was still holding his ill-fated coffee so was forced to put _that_ down on the desk awkwardly. From there, he was stuck. He watched RK900 scrawl something in perfect Cyberlife Sans, without even acknowledging Gavin had arrived, composed as always. Whoever had patched him up had fixed him without a trace of the bullets Gavin knew had been there; his jacket was back to its pristine blinding white. Did they wash it? Or just let the Thirium evaporate? _Shit, now that would be messed up, surely._ Or was it just a new jacket? He could probably tell from the serial numbers but fuck if Gavin didn’t pay attention to those – he barely read ‘RK900’.

The letters and numbers shifted subtly under his scrutiny. This time it was down to awkwardness, but in reality Gavin spent an awful lot of time looking at them - the little string rested perfectly in his eyeline when they sat across from each other. Gavin ended up staring hard at the model number, racking his brain for something to say, so he didn’t make himself look like even more of a cock. The logical part of his mind knew that he should just say it to get RK900’s attention, so he knew Gavin wasn’t just putting off work (although there was small part of him that marked that as a bonus), but the more he stared the more he realised that he’d never referred to him by bloody ‘RK900’ aloud. It’d be weird, Gavin thought. Even during the rare occasions Gavin had needed Connor he’d always called him by his name, but he’d already established that RK900 didn’t have anything else…

“You need a name.”

RK900 flashed him a look.

_Well shit._ It was too fucking late to back out, even if it was the most absolutely stupid sentimental work around for ‘thanks’, Gavin had ever come up with. He cleared his throat and shifted, desperately thinking up some somewhat believable bullshit as explanation. “Everyone keeps asking me to tell them what happened and ‘RK900’s a fucking mouthful.”

_There._

RK900 didn’t say anything, but didn’t look away. Gavin supposed that he _had_ been the one to open the can of worms, so he better be the one to…put them all back in? Or something? (He’d never been great with extended metaphors).

A normal person would ask questions, but of course RK900 wasn’t normal and didn’t ask, just sat perfectly still as always and waited on Gavin. Who was having some trouble. He could just pick a name, any random thing and start calling RK900 that, but Gavin was cursed with a terrible affliction called 'being human', so even though he _wanted_  to just chuck a name at him and move on he _couldn't_  because names meant something, and it took him a full week to settle on naming his cat ‘Garbage’. And just the same as he couldn’t bring himself to give the blasted animal a human name, he couldn’t do it to RK900 either. They still didn’t seem right, only the numbers on his jacket didn’t either. He needed something else, something with more depth than the glittering Cyberlife print, but still something unique enough to belong to RK900’s particular abrasive edges.

“Er…”

God this was hard. His brain was blank; all he could see were those dammed numbers he never really paid attention to, but now couldn’t think beyond. His head was swimming with R’s, K’s and Nine’s.

Gavin’s brow twitched, and he blinked, considering.

“…What about,” he started, looking up from his lap.

“What about _Nines?"_

To Gavin, it worked. It was a name without being too human. It didn’t impose something completely new and decidedly un-RK900, it just took what was there and shaped it to fit the ‘more’ of keeping Gavin alive against the odds. And being a prick for the fun of it.

Nines.

(Gavin would be lying if he said he wasn’t fucking proud of that).

Their eyes met, and Gavin searched for a reaction. There was no visible indication that he was even being listened to, but RK900 must have heard what Gavin had said, his…thing.

“You’re not gonna register a name?” he prompted, if only to get told to fuck off.

But RK900 didn’t do anything, said nothing at all, even though it was just them, and he usually would when they were alone. He was somehow stiller than usual, but his LED was rapidly circling amber, although Gavin could have sworn he saw the odd flash of blue.

After a while, wherein Gavin had all but worn a hole in the floor with the bouncing of his leg, he looked away, swallowing around the twist of his mouth, the heat in his cheeks. _Fucking piece of shit androids._

He tapped his knuckles on the desk, the thought of sitting alone with all that sodding paperwork suddenly that much more appealing.

“Fine, whatever then."

He stubbed his toe as he got up but ignored it, instead swinging the doors wide and storming back up the stairs, leaving RK900 to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual no idea if this is trash etc so let me know if you want, but have a nice day/night whatever regardless, and know there's only one more chapter left to go before I move on to something else. I was thinking more Connor? Like a longer work in the series but idk. I think I use these notes to talk to myself more than anything, it's cathartic. And I happen to really like writing about this fucking android game apparently, even if no-one reads it. This has got melancholy - back to wishing you a good day, and that you stumble across the fic of your dreams somewhere on here.


	6. Chapter 6

A feeling that was certainly _not_ embarrassment turned out to be great productivity fuel for about an hour, until Gavin’s cheeks cooled down and his determined glower lifted to his general scowl. He was left sitting alone, doing nothing but chewing on his pen and drinking coffee, and the first had the audacity to explode fucking _everywhere,_ and the other was pitifully empty. The pen was quickly acquainted with the bin, the ink on his thumb _very reasonably and not at all childishly_ smeared on RK900’s side of the desk, before Gavin lent back in his chair and simply sat amongst the paper and glowing tablet screens, spinning his chair gently from side to side and biting at the plastic lid lifted from his coffee, swirling the cold dregs around the bottom of the cup.

He’d yet to see RK900 emerge from the evidence room.

The lid in his mouth was shoved back into the cup, and he toyed with rocking it off balance with his fingertips.

Gavin was glad the Plastic Prick hadn’t showed up yet. He _was,_ because he hadn’t quite worked out a wonderfully cutting greeting yet, detailing exactly how much he didn’t give a shit. At all.

(Even if, down in the evidence room, he’d actually _wanted_ a reaction, for once).

After a particularly hard shove the cup toppled over on its side, and Gavin briefly considered ending it all as cold coffee splashed his legs, instead flinging the cup to the floor and heading over to the break room. Again.

_I should have a fucking loyalty card, or something._

He was already too far in before he realised the break room was far from the reprieve he was after, as the world and his dog had seemingly decided to take a break, and among the hoard of idle chatterers was Chen, sharing the limited table space with _Anderson_ of all people, and Tin Can the first, Connor, who looked up as he came in.

“Here again, Gavin,” Chen called.

“’M thirsty, so fuck off,” Gavin called back, busying himself with the coffee machine.

“You sure?” Chen said, laughter lacing her voice, “’cos I think you’re just skiving off all that paperwork.”

Gavin bristled but ignored her, pressing buttons just a _tad_ more forcefully than necessary.

“RK900 should help you with that, Detective,” Connor offered to his turned back, no doubt looking stupidly earnest as he said it. It wasn’t difficult to imagine, Connor’s big, dumb eyes comically wide and ‘helpful’, and Gavin’s shoulders relaxed a little with the image.

There were the sounds of shuffling as someone turned away from the table, then a sharp inhalation of breath. “Shit!” _Anderson_. “Er, speak of the devil.”

_Oh come the fuck on._

Gavin shoulders tensed right back up as he turned, and sure enough RK900 had decided to join the party, standing uncomfortably close to what would have been Anderson’s previously turned back, and staring at Gavin.

Gavin felt his ears burn hot and stared only for a moment before whirling back to his coffee, removing it from the machine and finding various excuses to keep fiddling with it. (He was injured, he deserved six packets of sugar, didn’t he?)

The chatter had quietened, like it always did when RK900 was around, but Chen persevered, her voice ringing around the room.

“Android of the hour!” she exclaimed with a chuckle, “Y’know I think Gavin should fill everything in _all by himself_ , considering he was pretty much useless and RK900-”

“Nines.”

Gavin froze in time with the clattering of a dropped spoon, a harried _‘oh fucking Hell!’_.

He picked up his cup, and turned around.

RK900 looked as composed and unmoved as usual, though he was glaring at Chen with a bit more intensity than his standard stare held. Chen for her part was gaping, staring at him the same way as everyone else in the vicinity.

“...I’m sorry?” she asked.

“My name is Nines, Detective, and in the interest of correcting wrongs Reed was not ‘useless’ during the investigation, but was incidental in the disbanding of a drug ring and in the capture of a murderer, which is more than you have accomplished recently, it appears.”

_Holy fucking shit._

Gavin couldn’t help but scoff a disbelieving laugh, taking in Chen’s wide eyes and open mouth, Connor’s frantically spinning LED, Anderson’s raised eyebrows, and finally RK – _Nines_ , who broke his level gaze at Chen to look back up at him.

It was safe to say that Gavin had not expected that, and had absolutely no clue how it factored into the game they’d been playing. It felt like he’d just won and lost simultaneously. It was a great feeling to be proven right, (and to be _defended_ ), but even Gavin couldn’t deny that Nines had just pulled one Hell of a power move, and he didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know where it left them. He didn’t want to be _chummy_ with Nines or anything, but Nines was…fun; fun to be a dick too, because he was a dick in return.

“That does not mean, however, that you are incorrect in your suggestion that Reed is neglecting paperwork,” Nines spoke across the silence, flicking his eyes briefly back to Chen. He nodded lightly at Gavin’s (far too sweet and completely forgotten) coffee. “I believe you have finished making that, Detective Reed.” He looked back up, and Gavin knew Nines didn’t do smiling, or smirking, or grimacing or _any_ of those ‘expressions’ his predecessor was so damn fond of, but he knew the deadpan look he was given might as well have been a condescending grin. “There are still forty-seven pages left for you to review once you return to your desk, and an ink smudge for you to remove.”

Gavin’s lips quirked into a smile before he could stop them.

_Still a prick then._ He could work with that, with someone who went Deviant purely to be petty.

Though Nines could fuck off if he thought Gavin was cleaning up that ink stain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I'm a fucking liar and an awful person 'cos this took forever, but here we are, for better or for worse, the end. I hope I didn't disappoint anyone and at least one of you enjoyed something at least. As always mistakes are all mine and everything.


End file.
